


Beautiful, Isn't It?

by DaringlyDomestic



Series: Tumblr Ficlets [19]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-27 06:13:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7606828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaringlyDomestic/pseuds/DaringlyDomestic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sherlock?" John ventures.</p><p>Sherlock doesn't move but gives a vague mmm? In reply.</p><p>"I was wondering," John starts, sighs, pauses. He has wanted to ask this question for a long time but can never seem to find the words.</p><p>Sherlock flicks one eye open and looks questioningly at John. John flushes with embarrassment and fumbles.</p><p>"Well, um, you remember that night when we were looking for the Golem, and You-You said the stars were beautiful?"</p><p>Sherlock continues to stare. Waits for John to go on.</p><p>"I was wondering, why you thought so. I mean, you said yourself that you don't normally go in for that sort of thing since it just clogs up the hard drive or whatever, but you said you appreciated it - the beauty, I mean…of-of the sky. Why?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beautiful, Isn't It?

John clicks the kettle on, crosses his arms, and leans against the door frame to stare at the striking man sprawled across the sofa. Sherlock's slender hands are folded in an all-too familiar pose beneath his chin and his eyes are closed against the unwanted intrusion of light or movement through the flat. John lets his unfiltered adoration for the man bubble up and spread across his face, twisting his lips into a wide grin.

 The kettle whistles and yanks John's attention back to daily practicalities. After stirring an obscenely large amount of sugar into one of the cups, John makes his way to the sofa. He sets the high-octane tea on the coffee table within arm's reach of the detective, lifts the man's lanky legs to create just enough space for him to sit, and settles his ankles onto his lap. John sips his tea and absent-mindedly strokes the cold bony ankles straddling his thighs. Sherlock hums with contentment.

John sets the tea down on the table and turns his head. Sherlock's hum shows a level of awareness of the goings-on around him that indicates he is not too deep in his mind palace and will be amenable to conversation.

"Sherlock?" John ventures.

Sherlock doesn't move but gives a vague _mmm?_ In reply.

"I was wondering," John starts, sighs, pauses. He has wanted to ask this question for a long time but can never seem to find the words.

Sherlock flicks one eye open and looks questioningly at John. John flushes with embarrassment and fumbles.

"Well, um, you remember that night when we were looking for the Golem, and You-You said the stars were beautiful?"

Sherlock continues to stare. Waits for John to go on.

"I was wondering, why you thought so. I mean, you said yourself that you don't normally go in for that sort of thing since it just clogs up the hard drive or whatever, but you said you appreciated it - the beauty, I mean…of-of the sky. Why?"

Sherlock sighs and rubs wearily at his eyes with the heels of his hands.

"The science of the stars is breathtaking, John. Burning balls of gas trillions of miles away. Unseen, untested, and unfathomable, yet they exist. Gas glowing hot, expanding, collapsing, spiraling in on itself - violent reactions that we define as static beauty. A large percentage of those stars we look up at and admire do not even exist anymore. The brilliance we see, the light echoing through space and time, is the only sign that they ever existed at all. Intellectually, we know that what we see is sharp, violent death and its aftermath, yet we look up and say _Beautiful._  As a scientist, I can appreciate that." 

John gapes at Sherlock. He had hoped for a few mumbled words amounting to a vague illusory answer. He was not prepared for the passionate speech Sherlock just delivered.

Several minutes pass. The tea goes cold. The men breathe. Blink. Swallow.

Sherlock clears his throat and asks in a surprisingly soft voice, "Is it really such a surprise?"

John shakes his head and pulls himself out of his own thoughts. 

"Sorry. What?"

"Is it really such a surprise that I could recognize the beauty of the night sky?"

John would swear at this moment, Sherlock seems almost stricken by the thought that John might not view him as capable of that. He resumes stroking Sherlock's ankles.

"Of course not. I never doubted that you could. I only wondered what you saw when you looked up at that sky that made it worthy of remembrance. I didn’t mean to offend you."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and huffs his displeasure.

"You know I hate repetition, John."

John is so off-balance. He feels they somehow segued themselves into an entirely different conversation. One he is not sure he is aware they are having.

 "What?"

"I do so hate repeating myself."

John looks at Sherlock, utterly lost. Sherlock's face slackens for a brief moment, and John can see the tenderness shining through before he draws his knees to his chest and turns to face the back of the sofa. Though Sherlock is grumbling, John can faintly make out the words:

"I saw beauty, John." 

 

 

 

John does not attempt to discuss the stars the next morning. After a few weeks pass, hastened by challenging cases and ceaseless Chinese food, things at 221B settle back to normal. They snipe at one another for decaying body parts left on the table and the compulsive need to control everything that results in the misplacement of several cold case files (it was actually Mrs. Hudson who put them on the top shelf of the book case, thank you very much). In short, the conversation is all but forgotten.

Three months later find the detective in a mood, moving swiftly toward foul. He rages around the sitting room, rifles through paperwork, throws knives at the picture of Mycroft pinned next to the fireplace, and collapses raggedly onto the sofa. John suffers this mood as well as he can, only really intervening when he feels their physical safety or the safety of Mrs. Hudson's flat warrants it. By the eleventh night of irritability brought on by the detective's obsession with the case and refusal to eat or sleep sufficiently, John has had enough.

"That's it!" John exclaims as he slides his arms into his jacket. Sherlock gives him a dour look.

"Oh, are you leaving now?" Sherlock spits sarcastically.

John does not rise to the bait. He simply shakes his head.

"Nope. _We_ are leaving. Hurry up."

He hands the detective his coat and scarf before bounding down the stairs. Sherlock stands motionless in the center of the sitting room with the weighty Belstaff draped over one arm. It's only when John calls "Come on!" from downstairs that Sherlock leaps into action. He sweeps the coat on as he hurries out the door and has his scarf fully knotted in place by the time he reaches the landing.

"John, where are we - "

"No time to lose. Let's go." John interjects.

Sherlock has no choice but to follow.

They've been in the cab for a good thirty minutes by now and London is slowly fading away behind them. Sherlock is getting anxious and frustrated by his inability to deduce John's intentions. _John Watson. There's always something…_

John turns to Sherlock and holds out a plush sleeping mask. Sherlock quirks an eyebrow but takes the mask, sliding it into place over his eyes. John leans forward. His breath tickles Sherlock's ear as he whispers:

"No peeking, Sherlock. I mean it."

Sherlock's heart pounds and his head spins as he nods his agreement. He wants nothing more in this moment than to turn and press his lips against John's. Just once. Just to stop the endless wondering. Just to finally know what it would be like.

But he doesn't. The cab stops and John leaves. Sherlock sits wondering if he should try and follow blindly until his door opens and John's warm, dry hand is clasping his own. Sherlock barely registers that he is being drawn up and out of the cab. His entire world is narrowed down to the feel of each crease and the roughness of each knuckle on that beloved hand.

"We're here."

 _When did they stop walking? For that matter, when did they start?_  

Sherlock feels the loss immediately as John removes his hand. He feels those fingers working along his temples to remove the mask. Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut and feels the cold blast of evening air that accompanies the mask's removal. John slips his hand back into Sherlock's and twines their fingers together, squeezing gently. Sherlock opens his eyes and feels his breath catch in his chest.

"John," he breathes in wonder.

The two men are stood in a field that stretches as far as Sherlock can see. They have clearly left London. The night is well on its way to full darkness now. But the air around them is aglow with hundreds of tiny pinpricks of light. The lights dance around them and illuminate every angle of John's face. Sherlock can read him perfectly in this moment. Anticipation, nerves, and happiness. So much happiness. He looks…

"Beautiful."

John smiles softly, his eyes still glued to the dancing fireflies.

"It is. Isn't it?"

Sherlock can't take his eyes off the gorgeous man in front of him. John's natural gold quality magnified by the soft light all around them. Even his hair looks ethereal. In this moment, he couldn't love John more.

Sherlock has been silent for entirely too long. John finally turns to look and catches the unadulterated affection pouring from Sherlock's face. John's smile shrinks a bit. His face settles into something more serious but a little more awed. Sherlock can't help himself. He presses their lips together and revels in the soft-hard duality of kissing John.

"Sherlock."

John breathes his name into Sherlock's lungs and the detective swears he has never been so out of breath.

John leans back just far enough to look into Sherlock's eyes.

"I thought you didn’t care about things like that?"

Sherlock grins, a small genuine twist of lip that John has never seen and instantly adores. He moves to take back John lips whispering:

"Doesn’t mean I can't appreciate it."


End file.
